


i must be a poster child prodigy

by theyellowumbrella



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F, Homophobia, Internalised Homophobia, Mild Suicidal Thoughts, Not very important, Soulmate AU, but the soulmate part is ...., more of a backseat thing, semi-graphic descriptions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-01 15:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10924890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyellowumbrella/pseuds/theyellowumbrella
Summary: You know you’re different when you find yourself staring at the waitress in the restaurant your parents drag you to rather than the boy your mother had told you to bring as your date.You are Lena Luthor, and you are normal. Luthors are not lesbians.(You are not a Luthor. Not really).orsupercorp "you can only see in black and white until you meet your soulmate" au that somehow turned into a lena luthor character study





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from this lyric from neptune by sleeping at last:
> 
>  
> 
> _if brokenness is a form of art, i must be a poster child prodigy_
> 
>  
> 
> such a big tw for self harm like??? i can't express enough!!! there's also a part where she romanticises it (saying that she thinks it must look pretty) which i want to say - not pretty!! it's just lena being 13 and angsty and In Pain
> 
> also tw for hella homophobia, internalised and not bc that shit Fucks You Up

You are seven years old when you first hear about soulmates. You are tucked in the corner of the class, reading a book, and —

_ Green _ .

You don’t know what it means. You are Lena Luthor, and you are  _ smart _ , and you’ve been able to read since two months after you were adopted by the Luthors, but you are intimidated by a little, five letter word staring up at you from a book.

You ask your teacher what it means, and she is in surprise when she finds out you have gone seven years without knowing there was anything other than  _ blackwhitegrey _ .

_ A soulmate _ , she says.

_ Someone you are destined to be with _ , she says.

It is surefire — written in the stars.

_ You will see him and your world will burst into colour _ , she tells you,  _ and it will be like nothing you have ever seen before _ .

Your father is in his study when your nanny takes you home that night. You slip through the crack in the door, timid.

You ask him if he can see in colour, too — if his world transformed right before his eyes when he met your mother. It is hard to believe, that your mother could be  _ anybody’s _ soulmate.

( _I love you in my own way,_ _Lena_ , she says, but her teeth are gritted and her mouth is twisted into that horrible smile).

And you are not sure if you are relieved or upset when he tells you that his world is as black and white as you have always assumed.

* * *

 

There is a girl in your class at school — Megan.

She is small and blonde and she talks a mile a minute and she is the closest thing you have to a friend, and she is a wonder for one reason:

She can see in colour.

You sit with her, in the playground, in the mini library in the classroom, underneath the jungle gym, and she will trace her finger over anything and everything and tell you the colour.

The grass is green and the sky is blue and the sun is yellow and your favourite shirt, the one you are never allowed to wear but always wish you could, is red.

Megan’s soulmate is a boy called Elliot, who is in the grade above and says that yellow and blue are his favourite colours because they are the colour of Megan’s hair and eyes, and —

You are seven years old and you are a cynic, and Megan and Elliot are the closest thing you have seen to true love in your life.

* * *

 

You know you’re different when you have your thirteenth birthday and you find yourself staring at the waitress in the restaurant your parents drag you to rather than the boy your mother had told you to bring as your date.

He is tall and lanky, and he’s barely grown into his body yet, and his hair is always messy and he only has one dimple, on one cheek, but —

You are Lena Luthor, and you are  _ normal _ .

Luthors are not lesbians.

(You are not a Luthor. Not really).

The boy —  _ Kyle  _ — is kind, and he does not want to be here either, you do not think, but he is nice all the same.

Lex sits on your left side and you try and not look at the waitress with the hair pulled back into a ponytail and the laugh that carries across the restaurant.

He leans over, conspiratorially. “Kyle,” he whispers, across your body. The boy turns, he grins, flips his hair out of his face.

And you are supposed to  _ want  _ this, to want him to want  _ you _ , but you are thinking about the waitress instead, and the girl who sits at the front of your history class and always volunteers to answer questions, and the girl that smiled at you from across the courtyard, and —

“What colour do you think this is?”

It is Lex and your’s favourite game, so you and him and Kyle entertain yourselves by guessing the colours of everything you can see.

(Your mother is staring —  _ glaring _ . You can feel her eyes watching you, your hands, the way you force it to awkwardly bump against Kyle’s, the embarrassed smile you give him).

( _ Kyle is a nice boy, don’t you think, Lena? _ she asks later, but it is not a question).

* * *

 

The first time, it is with the metal blade of a sharpener stolen from Lex’s bedroom. You take it quickly, as if he will know why you want it. You peek your head in his door, and he has all of those weird  _ things _ being built, but you don’t pay them any mind.

In the safety of your own room, you struggle to pull the blade out of it and try and not let your fingers tremble when it pops out and lands in the palm of your hand.

You are Lena Luthor, and you are not afraid of anything.

You are in your bathroom, looking into the mirror, and you do not recognise the girl who stares back at you.

(Not even fourteen, and already there are frown lines beginning to form on your forehead. Lillian won’t be pleased when she sees, so you try and smile at your reflection, but it just looks worse).

Finding the pressure you need to apply to draw blood comes easily. It is once, then twice, then three times, across the soft skin on your forearm, and then —

You remember.

You are a  _ Luthor _ , and Luthors aren’t lesbians and Luthors don’t mutilate themselves.

So, you are sneaky. It is across your thigh and the underside of your knee and the crook of your elbow and —

It’s  _ one for looking at her too long  _ and  _ one for flinching when Kyle put his arm around you  _ and  _ one for smiling back at the girl in your Lit class _ .

(If your mother knew you were doing this, she would be furious. But you wonder if she knew the reasons, would she have pride? You are trying to fix yourself, after all).

(You can hear her now —

_ Luthors are not faggots, Lena, you know this _ ).

You have read that blood is red, and you wish nothing more than to be able to see it when it’s pooling at your thighs and dripping down onto the tile flooring, because you think of how  _ pretty _ your blood-stained fingertips must look to someone who can see colour.

* * *

 

You are fifteen and you live in a comfortable world of black and white when you meet Veronica Sinclair. She is all long hair and cheekbones that could cut glass, and there is something _ there _ , something unspoken, that unsettles you, but —

You are Lena Luthor, and you are polite, and Lillian always taught you never to be rude.

You do not stare, because it is  _ rude _ , but there is part of you that Roulette has wrapped around her little finger, and —

You are coming undone, unraveled.

Your world stays black and white, but you do not protest when she takes hold of your jaw and kisses you like she knows that is what you’ve been thinking about for days, weeks, ever since you met.

Her lips taste like vanilla lip balm and she is  _ intoxicating — _  you are dizzied.

You ground yourself by wrapping your arms around her neck, and she has you pressed against the wall, and —

Luthors are not lesbians, but you’ve never really been a Luthor, anyway, and you don’t care all too much when you get to keep kissing this girl.

At night, in the privacy of your own bathroom, you still find yourself with the blade from your razor slicing easily through your skin when you think about the way her hands had wandered up your shirt.

* * *

You are still fifteen when the word travels back to your mother and father about you.

You have settled into a lazy sort of  _ something _ with Roulette — she is not your girlfriend and you don’t want her to be, but she will press a kiss to the corner of your mouth and —

She is not a good person, but not much of you cares.

You get a letter, in the mail. It is written in Lillian’s unmistakable handwriting, and you stumble when you see it. Roulette is behind you, waiting, and you cannot afford to falter, to appear  _ weak _ , but —

Your mother has written you once before since you came here, and all it had been was the most bland, generic birthday card with  _ Happy birthday, Lena. Yours sincerely, your mother _ written inside of it in her trademark cursive, signed with her almost intimidating  _ L. Luthor _ — and even that came two weeks late.

“What is it?” Veronica asks. She peers over your shoulder, and you snatch it away before she can see your trembling hands and how the card shakes in them.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, with the practiced nonchalance you’ve never quite been able to get down. Veronica is almost too close, her hips pressed against yours, and you wonder how it  _ looks _ , if your mom has planted bugs, if she knows —

“Relax,” she whispers against the shell of your ear, and it is  _ dangerous _ —  _ she _ is dangerous — but you shrug it off.

The letter is full of formalities and there is no feeling in it, none at all. There is  _ I raised you better than this _ and  _ a disgrace to the Luthor name _ and  _ this must never get out _ . You feel sick to your stomach, and Luthors aren’t lesbians, Luthors are  _ normal _ .

You are Lena Luthor and you’ve hated yourself for a long time but you have never wished you were dead until you’re curled up against your bathroom door trying not to read the words. Trying not to read the  _ disgust _ .

You don’t know what you were expecting from her. She might be your mother on paper but she is no  _ mom _ .

She is  _ Lex _ ’s mom, and you have known this as long as you have known her, but it doesn’t stop it from hurting. She is your  _ mother _ and she is supposed to love you but you know that she is far past even pretending that.

And you think of your father, and a life without colour, stuck with a woman who could not make the skies explode for him, who could only make everything else in his life explode and  _ not _ in a good way, and try and promise yourself you will never let yourself go that wrong.

* * *

 

The rumour spreads around school like a virus, and you’re not surprised to find out who’s behind it.

Veronica’s fingertips skim your hip, exposed by your sweater riding up, and she smiles, sickly sweet. She pushes herself closer, and you _hate_ _it_ , you hate it that you still get breathless when a pretty girl is this close to you —

Especially when that girl is the one that outed you.

“Oh, Lena,” she says. Her voice is full of fake concern, and your throat feels thick. “I’ve heard what they’re saying about you. I’m so sorry. I know your mother won’t be … happy, when she finds out others have caught wind of your situation.”

And you try and get it out, you try and assemble your thoughts into a coherent enough sentence so that you can tell her to fuck off, but you find yourself clenching your fist against her collarbone, and she’s smirking infuriatingly, and —

“They can say what they want,” you get out finally, but you sound nowhere near as strong as you should, and Roulette is positively  _ basking  _ in your misery.

You think, briefly, about disconnecting yourself from her completely.

How you would do it.

_ I think it’d be best if we didn’t talk for a while _ .

But the words get stuck in the back of your throat and you know you will never say them, because Roulette is the only person who wants to be your friend anymore.

Even if it is fake.

* * *

 

You are nineteen when somebody leaks photos of you kissing a girl from your biochemistry class to a tabloid, and the next day, they’re plastered on the front of all of the magazines and newspapers you can see. 

Her face is covered, hidden enough that she’s unidentifiable, but your hair is pulled back into a ponytail and you’re grinning against her mouth and wearing the only hoodie you could find when you woke up late for class that spells  _ Luthor _ across your back.

You’re Lena Luthor and your world crumbles around you.

There are twenty seven missed calls from your mother, all of which you sit and watch as they go to your answering machine, and just as many voicemails.

You are nineteen when you meet Jack Spheer, and he is nice and kind and the kind of man that your mother has always wanted you to bring home, and he wants to help cure cancer with you and how can you say no to that?

When you first kiss him in the lab, pushed against the door when he goes to leave, he pulls away after kissing back for five seconds.

“I thought — I heard that you were a …”

The word is on the tip of his tongue and it makes you feel sick. You feel like you’re back in boarding school again, and people are staring at you as you walk the halls and whispering  _ Lena Lesbian  _ to each other.

“ _ No _ ,” you say, and it is too quick, too sharp. You can see the look on his face, the  _ disbelief  _ —

But you are Lena Luthor and Luthors aren’t lesbians; Luthors kiss nice boys who want to cure cancer and they  _ like  _ it.

“Oh? I — there were photos, and —”

“What can I say? Everyone experiments in college,” you say, but it’s forced, and there’s bile rising in the back of your throat, and he’s smiling, and he’s so kind, and that look on his face is telling you that you have an out, and you can leave, and you don’t have to speak about it again, but —

_ Luthors aren’t lesbians Luthors aren’t lesbians Luthors aren’t lesbians Luthors aren’t lesbians _ .

“You’re sure you want this?” he asks, because he is a gentleman, and you wish, oh, you wish so badly that you could tell what colour his eyes are, or if his lips are more pink than red, or what colour his shirt is.

But his eyes are grey and his lips are grey and his shirt is grey and just because he is a  _ he  _ and he isn’t your soulmate doesn’t mean your soulmate  _ won’t  _ also be one when you meet.

You wrap your hand around the curve of his neck and pull him in for a kiss because you are a Luthor and you  _ want _ this.

* * *

 

At Lex’s trial, you sit beside your mother and remember the way she told you that you were to make sure you looked like you fit in there.

_ Keep your head held high _ .

_ No tears _ .

_ Don’t listen to what the press are saying to you _ .

And when you don’t think about it for too long you can almost convince yourself that the words are that of a kind mother, and that it’s  _ advice _ and not a demand, and it’s  _ dangerous _ , tricking yourself like this, but you have to.

You sit beside her and whenever you’re close enough that you could accidentally brush her she moves away. 

As if you are contagious. As if you have something she could catch in the first place.

You haven’t seen her since she turned up at your dorm room two days after  _ the incident _ four years ago, even though you’re well aware she knows about Jack, and —

Your mother always has been intelligent beyond her years. Your father used to say that even though you weren’t biologically hers, it must have been something you’d inherited from her.

You’d hated him for it. Hated the idea you could have any trace of Lillian Luthor in you.

She knows, even if you are with Jack. Knows who you are.

_ What _ you are.

Every time you are near her you are reminded that no, Luthors are not lesbians, but you are the furthest thing from a Luthor there is.

Jack texts you, even though he shouldn’t —  _ i know you said not to text you while you’re in court but i’m waiting for you at my apartment with wine and your fav romcoms  _ — and you check quickly.

You can feel her watching over your shoulder, reading, judging. And you don’t know what she is judging, because it’s just your  _ boy _ friend being supportive, and loving you, and there’s not much to judge, but it’s Lillian, so of course she is.

* * *

 

You break up with Jack two days after Lex’s trial.

You are lying on his bed, curled under his covers, and you can feel his heart beating against your ear, and you love him  _ so much _ that it hurts, but it’s not right.

“I can’t do this,” you say. You trace circles on his chest, over where his heart is, and the air feels heavy. It feels like the end.

“Do what?” he asks. His voice is sleepy, and he’s running his fingers through your hair absentmindedly, as if it is second nature to him.

“I can’t — it’s not fair to you. You deserve someone who - who  _ wants _ this.”

He sits up then, straighter than before, and blinks the sleep out of his eyes. “Lena, what are you talking about?”

The words get caught in the back of your throat, and you wish you could take them back, and that the world could just swallow you up whole, but you’ve said it now, and —

“I love you, Jack,” you say, and your voice bleeds sincerity, you  _ know _ it does, but there’s something not right, and he knows. “But I can’t — you were right. All those years ago, you were right.

“Lena, I don’t —” His hand has stopped moving in your hair, but it still rests there. He’s still, rigid, and your eyes are welling with tears at the thought of having to lose him.

“That first night we kissed. You asked me and I told you it wasn’t true but I can’t  _ do it _ anymore, Jack. I’m  _ exhausted _ .”

“I don’t know what you’re —” he starts to say, but he cuts himself off, and this is  _ it _ , you have reached the end, he is  _ done _ . You watch as the realisation sets in, and you wait for the anger.

But it never comes. Instead, he just looks sad, and he curls an arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him, and it’s not  _ fair _ , how good he is —

“ _ Lena _ .” It comes out small, soft, gentle. “It’s okay.”

“No,” you say. Your knees tuck themselves under your chin until you are curled into a ball against his chest. “I — four years, you wasted, Jack.  _ Four _ .”

“I didn’t waste anything.”

“You did. Four years with a girl who - who can’t even be  _ normal _ .”

And you cry, cry so hard, and you are Lena Luthor but you are  _ weak _ .

(It feels wrong when he tells you that you are normal. That it doesn’t make you weird, or wrong. It feels  _ fake _ ,  _ false _ , and your skin crawls).

* * *

You sell the story to the Daily Planet the day before you move to National City.

Your bags are packed, waiting in your living room, and you have three unopened texts from Jack that you’re sure are all supportive, and you find yourself sitting across from a reporter that can’t be more than twenty at your favourite restaurant.

“So, Ms. Luthor,” he says, pushing the bridge of his glasses up with his index finger. He’s small, nerdy. “What was it you wanted us to write a story on?”

You take a deep breath. 

The words are bubbling at the back of your throat, threatening to spill out, and you don’t know  _ why _ you’re nervous, because there are still a lot of people who think that the rumours were true, and they’ve never cared too much.

And when the words come out of your mouth you have never felt more free.

You see the way the reporter drops his notebook, and struggles to pick it up off of the floor. You almost laugh at the sight — at how a grown(ish) man stumbles as soon as he hears the words  _ I’m a lesbian _ .

The questions come, and you are not quite strong enough to pretend it does not hurt when he asks you if you are only coming out to distract from Lex’s sentencing.

(You stumble over the words, your mouth struggling to put them together.  _ I truly believe my brother deserves everything he’s getting _ .  _ Of course, he’s my brother, I love him, but what he did — I will never understand _ ).

And as soon as the interview is over you find yourself crying on the floor of your soon-to-be vacant apartment, head in between your knees and sobs thundering against your chest, and your skin is  _ crawling _ and the thought of the headlines, of what he might write, of how he will word it, of the reactions, are all screaming away in your head —

But you have never felt more like  _ Lena _ and less like Lena Luthor.

* * *

 

You move to National City, and Luthorcorp becomes L-Corp, and you are  _ out _ and open and you have begun to appreciate the greys in your life — find them almost beautiful, actually.

Sometimes, you yearn to see the colour everyone gushes over. But — how can you miss something you never had in the first place?

You are doing  _ good _ , and for the first time in years your fingers are not twitching for your razor blade when you get home from work, and you have settled into a calm, lull that is  _ enough _ .

_ Lena _ does not need the thrill, the excitement, that Lena Luthor did.

Until you meet Kara Danvers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lena's a Massive Idiot and all kara wants to do is love her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is Bad™ and it's also like a month late so i mean? sorry.
> 
> i'm posting this on my phone from a turkish hotel room with shit wifi because i won't be home until saturday and i'll procrastinate posting this if i don't do it now so sorry if there's any mistakes or w/e i'm Only Human and i typed this on my phone
> 
> also there's like a lot of italics in this story like a Lot so i probably missed loads bc i have to re edit them back in when i'm doing it on my phone
> 
>  
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: SEMI-GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF SELF HARM. please don't read if this is triggering to you!!!!!

It doesn’t happen the way they describe it in the books.

At first, in fact, you don’t even notice it.

You’re walking around your office, barely even sparing a glance at Clark, when you notice something is off. You’re only vaguely aware of the person standing beside him, but there’s something weird about Clark.

It’s his jacket. Something is off.

At first, you think maybe the lighting’s just weird, but then you realise —

It’s in colour. An ugly colour, yes, but a colour all the same.

Slowly, everything around you begins to seep into colour.

The blue of Clark’s pants; the red of your shirt; the _redyelloworange_ of the sky that you can see from your window.

You’ve met Clark Kent before — of course you have. He used to practically live at your house, before everything that Lex did. You always got along well, even if you rarely spoke.

You would know if Clark Kent was your soulmate.

Which must mean —

“Supergirl was there too!” Clark’s companion says, a little too loud, a little too much. You shift your gaze to where she’s standing, and something —

_Clicks_.

The girl looks like the definition of the word soft, with her glasses and pale pink cardigan and the little leather backpack.

You look at her, _stare_ , almost, and note to yourself the way her eyes widen and how her notebook almost slips from her grip. She’s biting down on her lip, and you forget to breathe for just a second when you make eye contact.

You’re sure Clark must have noticed your silence, so you squash everything you want to say in the back of your throat and say, “And who are you, exactly?”

_Kara Danvers._

Your hands tremble as you pour yourself a glass of water, and you hope she doesn’t notice.

You know that she isn’t going to say something _now_ — Clark Kent is beside her, nearly interrogating you, and it’s not _right_ — but part of you still wants her to.

The childish part, that makes you find yourself looking at everything in the room, trying to find any trace of colour you can to hold onto. Your office is full of blacks and whites, and it looks nice, but —

You’re already redesigning it in your mind, and you’re not sure which colour it is but the main one is going to be your new favourite:

The colour of Kara’s eyes.

/

You wait for her to say something about it, _anything_ , as you grow closer, but it never comes.

At first, you’re sure she’s just waiting for the right time, but then it’s been three months worth of lunch dates and impromptu trips to CatCo and no word, and there’s been so many _right times_ you can’t believe it.

You’re so close to saying something, _anything_ , when she first brings it up.

She’s sitting across from you in your office, speaking a mile a minute and stabbing her fork into a potsticker, when she looks up at you and smiles over your food. “Can you see colours, Lena?”

You almost choke on your salad.

“ _What_?”

“Colours,” she repeats. She starts eating again, as if she had said nothing, as if you had never reacted. “Can you see them?”

  
“I — don’t you think that’s a little … _personal_?”

Her face flashes with worry, and then she’s apologising profusely, wide eyes blinking far too quickly. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Lena, I didn’t mean to — I’m just — I didn’t even _think_ that — please don’t be upset, Lena, I didn’t —”

  
“Kara,” you say. Your lips twist into a smile you hope is comforting, and she relaxes at the sight. “It’s okay. I — yes, I can see colour.”

“You can?”

You’re not sure what her tone is, but there’s something not quite right about it. It’s almost curious, but there’s something behind it, something _off_.

“Yeah. Can’t you?”

  
“No, I — I mean, yes, I … can.”

There is something in the air, something thick and uneasy.

“Why were you asking again? Sorry, I must have spaced out.”

“Oh, I just — my sister, Alex, she met her soulmate, but, well, I guess she got a little bit of a surprise when it was a girl, and — she’s just. Freaking out, I guess.”

“Didn’t know she was into girls?” you ask, stabbing at a piece of lettuce. “Yeah, that must be hard.” Kara doesn’t say anything, so you continue. “I mean, I remember when I was younger, trying to convince myself I wasn’t gay. It was easy enough — I’d never met my soulmate so there was no way to prove they weren’t a boy.”

Something shifts. It’s Kara, you realise quickly. Something in her face —

Changes.

“You’re gay?” she asks. She doesn’t sound mad, not quite, but her voice is small and high-pitched and it doesn’t help any to ease the tension in the room.

And you’re not sure what to do, because nothing prepared you for this, because _everyone_ knows you’re gay, even the people you never wanted to.

You’ve always been fairly transparent about it.

Roulette had been able to sense it from a mile off, had _known_ from the first time you’d spoken. Had _known_ you would react positively that first time she kissed you — that it would be exactly the kind of thing you’d been dreaming about.

People have _always_ known. There were always whispers, even before you were outed, before anything happened with Veronica, before you even started boarding school.

When you were at your first high school — a public school on the outskirts of town, where you only stayed for two months before Lillian decided a Luthor was too good for it — there were suspicions.

Of course, you were asked out. You were stuck up and they made fun of you for that, but you were never naïve enough to think you were _ugly_ , and fifteen year old boys are fifteen year old boys, and no matter how stuck up you were, they were going to ask you out.

But you always said no and they stared in the halls and there was the birth of _Lesbian Luthor._

(Of course, back then, it was less that you liked girls and more that you didn’t like boys, but the girls in your class had refused to let you change in front of them all the same).

You’ve never been used to people not knowing. You denied it when you were younger, would take it to your grave, but you were never under the impression that there were not whispers and raised eyebrows every time you failed to bring a date to a party hosted by your mother.

Even after four years with Jack there were still skeptics.

And then you’d come out, and everyone had said exactly the same thing — that they always knew.

And so Kara — always slightly oblivious but certainly not stupid Kara — sitting in front of you telling you she had no idea you were gay is —

Well, it’s a shock, to say the least.

“You didn’t know?”

“I — is it … _common knowledge?_ ”

And you shouldn’t laugh, really, because Kara just looks so confused, but you just can’t help it. She looks a little hurt, staring at your hand covering your mouth, at the way you just can’t stop the laughter, and you feel bad, but —

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say in between laughter. “Just — yes. Before everything with Lex, it was practically all the media were interested in when it came to me. _Lesbian Luthor_ , they called me. Terrible.”

“Oh,” she says. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

“Well,” you say, and you choose to not look up, to keep your eyes focused on the green of the lettuce, the red of her fingernails, the baby blue of her cardigan — anything but her face. “It certainly wasn’t ideal, but. It is what it is.”

  
“No, Lena, that’s — I’m really sorry.”

“Kara, really, it’s fine. I’m over it.”

“Well, still,” she says, looking unconvinced. “Nobody should have to go through that. _Nobody_.”

Your eyes meet across the desk, and you can feel it — the tension in the room. It’s heavy, but it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.

It makes you feel like you should lean across the table and kiss her.

_(You will see him, and your world will burst into colour, and it will be nothing you have ever seen before)._

You don’t, of course.

Kara is your soulmate but every day you’re becoming less and less sure that you are hers, and it wouldn’t be right, to kiss her and to risk everything.

She’s brilliant, and you’re certain she’s responsible for every colour that exists, and it would be so cruel of you to ruin it now.

/

You are not sure how you find yourself crouched on your bathroom floor at twenty-four years old, index finger and thumb gripping onto the blade ripped from your razor, but you do.

It’s been years, too many — you’re out of touch with it now, and your hand trembles when you pull it down across the skin near the top of your forearm.

You watch as your skin tears open, as the blood pours out and onto your floor, and you’re surprised.

Because you never carried on this habit long enough to see the way the red mixes with the ivory of your skin, never kept on long enough to see if it really was a beautiful sight.

It’s not.

It’s cathartic still, yes, but watching the impossible red drip off of your arm just makes you think of Kara, and the _redyelloworange_ sky the day you met her, and it makes you feel sick.

You’re not sure your endgame here. You’d come in here with a goal, a purpose, but you can’t remember it now.

Your arm is sticky, bloody. The cut is impossibly open, too big for just one cut, and you can feel the blood pouring out of you more and more every second.

It would be easy. Effortlessly easy.

Just a few more.

(Up the street, not across the road).

But then your phone rings, from across the room, and you’re able to ignore it long enough for whoever’s calling to have to try three times, but by the time the telltale _buzz_ sounds from the top of the laundry hamper, you slide yourself across the floor and pick it up.

_Kara._

Your hands are trembling when you press down on the green answer button, and you smear blood on the screen from where your fingers had brushed against your wrist.

“Lena?” Her voice grounds you — brings you back down.

“ _Kara_ ,” you breathe out, and it comes out too hard, too fast, too sharp. You cringe when you hear how it sounds, because she must hear it, too, she _must_ — Kara’s observant, she notices little things that are off, and this is definitely off.

“Are you okay?”

She is kind, caring, and your heart breaks. You get up and start raking through the cabinets, pulling out the bandages you know are stacked at the back, behind the Tylenol and spare toothbrushes.

“Yeah, I’m - I’m fine,” you say, but your voice is shaking, and your breaths are ragged as you clumsily wrap the bandage around your wrist. You’ve been in this position before, too many times to count, but all of a sudden it feels new and _unfamiliar,_ and —

You can’t focus, knowing she’s there. Knowing she doesn’t know what you’re doing.

“Are you sure?” You can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain as she decides whether or not to say the next thing. “I can come over, if you —”

  
_“No.”_

The bandage is stopping the bleeding for the most part, but there’s still some seeping through, and you look so goddamn _pathetic_ right now that you wouldn’t let anybody see you —

_Especially_ not Kara.

“Lena, really, it’s no —”

“I’m _fine_ , Kara,” you hiss. Your voice is harsh, and you can almost hear the way she flinches, but your arm is wrapped in a bandage absorbing your blood and you’re biting your tongue to hold back your tears, and —

You love her too much to let her see you like this.

“Okay,” she says. Her voice is calm, level, but you can feel the tension, feel the things she wants to say.

“What, um, what was it you were calling about?” you ask. You rest your head against the bathroom door.

“Oh, no, it’s not important,” she says, and you can almost picture the way she brushes her hair behind her ear; the way she bites down on her lip nervously; how she hunches in on herself.

“You wanted to tell me, Kara, so of course it’s important,” you say, and it’s out before you can really think about your words, but you can practically hear the grin spreading across her face, so you don’t say anything.

“Uh, I just — I had a bad dream. About you. And I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

You love her. You’re sure more than ever.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You slide down the door so that you’re crouching on the ground, and tuck your knees under your chin.

“It’s okay,” Kara says. “I’m really glad you’re okay, Lena.”

You don’t know what possesses you to make you say what comes out next, but as soon as you do, you regret it.

“I’m not.” It comes out quiet, a weak whisper, and _fuck_.

“What?”

“I’m not. Okay, that is.”

“What? But you said —”

“I didn’t want you to worry about me,” you tell her, and a smile cracks on your face even though this is far from funny, because this is Kara, and you’re Lena, and of course she was going to worry.

“Lena, I’m always worried about you,” she says.

“I know.”

“What - what’s wrong, then?”

You take a deep breath. “Is everything an acceptable answer?”

Kara sighs. “Lena. Be serious for a minute. Please.”

“I am being serious.” The thought of having to spell out your problems for Kara, of making them somehow _her_ problems too, makes you feel sick, but you know it’s too late to stop now. “Seriously, Kara. I mean, I’m twenty four and somehow the CEO of the most hated company in all of America; I’m the sister of the most hated man in America and the daughter of the most hated woman; I actually just sat in my bathroom and self-harmed, like I’m still fourteen years old or something; I’m too much of a pussy to tell my soulmate that she’s my soulmate; I —”

“You just _what_?” Kara cuts in. “Lena, oh my _God_.”

“Kara, I —”

“No. Shut up. I’m coming over.”

/

She appears at your front door ten minutes later, and her eyes are red like she’s been crying, and the thought that it was you that did that, you that made her like this, makes you want to pick that razor back up.

As soon as she sees you, her vision zeroes in on the bandages around your wrist. “ _Lena_.”

Before you know what to do, her arms are winding around your neck and you’re being pulled into a hug, and —

She smells like peaches and laundy detergent and something that you can’t place — a perfume, maybe — that just smells so utterly _Kara_ you can’t believe it.

“I’m so sorry,” you say against her chest. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything, but instead she just leads you over to your sofa. She pushes you down onto it before going through to your bedroom and taking through your comforter, raking through your kitchen for takeout menus and flicking through your Netflix.

“Hmm … _Parks and Rec,_ or _The Office_?” she asks as you’re browsing a Chinese takeout menu.

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen either,” you reply.

She gasps in horror. “ _What_?”

“Uh … sorry?”

“You better be,” she says, but the grin on her face is enough to tell you it’s a joke, and you let yourself breathe. “Okay, so, the first season of _Parks_ is truly terrible, but we have to watch it to understand the rest, and plus it’s only six episodes, so please don’t let the first season influence your thoughts on the show.”

“Um, okay?”

She snuggles under the comforter with you, resting her head on your shoulder. “Have you decided what you want to order yet?”

/

It becomes a sort of tradition. At least one night a week, but more often two or three, Kara will turn up at your door, and the two of you will curl up under your comforter, order something new from the takeaway, and watch all of the TV shows she’s outraged you’ve never seen.

(So far, you’ve made your way through _Parks and Rec, The Office,_ and half of _How I Met Your Mother_ ).

By the time you’re on season six of _The Office_ , you’re beginning to come to terms with just being Kara’s friend. So far, it’s been amazing, and while that must mean that being her girlfriend would be somehow even better, being her friend is more than enough.

Which is why you’re so shocked when you do what you do.

You’re curled into her, comforter pulled up around your neck and watching as Barney smashes yet another TV on the ground, and you’re suddenly hit with a bout of love for Kara, so big that it almost blinds you.

You look at her, at the way that she almost subconsciously smiles at whatever’s happening on screen, at the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs, at the way she scrunches up her nose in distaste whenever Ted’s on screen, and —

You love her. So much that you can’t breathe. So much that you can’t handle it.

“Is there something on my face?” she asks when she catches you staring, and all you can manage is a weak shake of the head.

“No, you’re … you’re …”

You’re not sure why you think it’s a good idea at all, but your body finds itself leaning in against your own will, and your lips press against hers for all of three seconds before you remember who this is, and who you are, and what you’re doing, and you pull away so quickly you’d think you’d been burned.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, jumping up and off the couch. You knock your takeout container onto the floor, but you don’t even notice. Kara’s sitting on the couch, looking confused as ever, and you can feel your heart breaking. “I’m sorry, Kara, I shouldn’t have —”

“Lena,” she says, her voice soft. “Lena, it’s —”

“It’s _not_ okay. I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

“Lena, this is _your_ apartment,” she tries to reason, but you’re already out the door, phone and shoes in hand.

You run, leaving Kara in your apartment and the shattered remains of your broken heart with her.

/

She calls. Oh, of course she calls. She calls and texts so much you’re considering blocking her number, or getting a whole new one entirely, just so you don’t have to see her name on your screen one more time.

You don’t reply to any texts for a week and three days. You don’t reply to anything until Alex texts you.

ALEX DANVERS  
[hey fuckhead kara’s going out of her mind worrying about you and normally i wouldn’t spare you a second thought but she’s sitting crying in my apartment right now because you’re ghosting her so]  
[i don’t know what the fuck went on between the two of you, and i don’t CARE what the fuck went on between the two of you, but all i know is one minute she’s happy cheery kara and the next she can barely leave the apartment]  
[fix it]

She’s _crying_? That’s all you need to make yourself finally text her.

LENA  
[Can you be at my apartment in 10 minutes?]  
[I’m sorry]

KARA  
[i’m omw]

/

When she appears, she’s wearing a hoodie too big to be hers and a pair of NCU sweatpants and her eyes are bloodshot, like she’s just finished crying.

For the past ten minutes, you’ve been trying to think of what you’ll say when you see her, but in the moment all that you can get out is, “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t reply, but you can almost see the cogs turning in her mind. After a few seconds of silence, she lifts up on her feet and takes your face between her hands.

The kiss is soft and gentle and sweet, and she tastes like sour gummy bears and Pepsi, and the thought that you can’t live in this moment forever is almost offensive to you.

When she pulls away, she presses two more kisses to your mouth. “I am so mad at you,” she says, curling her arm around your waist. “But I am so happy to see you.”

“I’m sorry I freaked out,” you say. “I didn’t want you to hate me. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Kara shakes her head. “No. You could never lose me. _Never_.”

She moves away, closing the door and taking a few steps into your living room. You follow after her, like a sort of lovesick puppy, and she grins. She wraps her arms around your neck, pulling you in closer.

“We’re soulmates, Lena. Can’t cheat fate.” She kisses you again, grinning against your mouth, and you swear, you’ve never been so happy before in your life. She pulls back for a second. “I am your soulmate, right?”

You laugh, _hard_ , and smile wide and nod at her. “Yes, Kara.”

“Good,” she says, kissing you. “Could’ve been awkward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are so many scenes i wanted to write that just Didn't make the cut for this (#1 being lena taking kara to the wedding of megan and elliot aka the first soulmates she ever met) sorry abt that 
> 
> come talk to me about this or about anything really on tumblr @staciieconrad

**Author's Note:**

> part 2 comin soon


End file.
